


When You're A Stranger

by Hexiva



Category: James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, canon typical sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexiva/pseuds/Hexiva
Summary: Set post-You Only Live Twice. Bond returns from behind the Iron Curtain, via Turkey, and meets an old friend there.
Relationships: James Bond/Kerim Bey
Kudos: 3





	When You're A Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the beginning of _The Man with the Golden Gun._

Istanbul is cold in winter, and if James Bond shuts his eyes, he can almost imagine he’s back in London. He is homesick. He still hates Turkey, but his hatred has turned inside out - now he feels like he’s the one out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin. Last time he was here, the Turks seemed unimaginably foreign to him. Now he looks at them and sees how normal they are, going about their business, living their lives, raising their families - and he, Bond, is the alien one. 

Dignity prevents him from huddling up close to his guide, Kerim Bey, but he wants to. Kerim is like a warm fire on a cold night. Kerim is warm, and alive, and the only friend he has in this foreign land. 

“Come up to my hotel room, James,” Kerim says, stopping in front of one of the big old buildings with Turkish words engraved on the front. “You look like you could use a good drink.”

“When couldn’t I?” Bond jests, but somehow all of the humor is gone out of it, and it falls flat. Kerim puts an arm around his shoulders, and despite himself, Bond leans into the touch. He feels so cold, inside and out. 

Kerim takes him upstairs to his hotel room. Bond stands there, at once idle and tense, as Kerim orders room service. His eye falls on the window, and he looks down at the citizens of Istanbul walking past. They seem so distant and small. Bond was walking among them not five minutes ago. 

Room service arrives. Kerim takes his arm and pulls him to sit in an armchair, in front of the fire. Bond stares into the flames. 

“So,” Kerim says, finally, pouring both of them a glass of whiskey. “You have returned alive from behind the Iron Curtain, my friend. Not many men can say that.”

Bond takes the glass and holds it up to the fire, watching the flames dance through the amber liquid. “It hardly seemed like an accomplishment at the time. They were . . .” His lips curl in a bitter little smirk. “Just like us, I suppose. More concerned with their own petty squabbles than with me. There was one man there, Major Boris . . . he was a decent chap. Reminded me a bit of M.” He sips his whiskey. “He was using me, of course . . . but I would have done the same thing to him. And I think he believed what he told me.”

“What did he tell you?” Kerim asks.

“All of this nonsense about ending the war as fast as possible, by killing M,” Bond says. He takes a swig of whiskey, and notices the sudden tension in Kerim’s big broad shoulders.

“What did you say?” Kerim asks, carefully. 

Bond stares into his whiskey. “I told him I couldn’t wait to put a bullet in the bastard,” he says, dully. “I didn’t know who I was yet, you see. I suppose that saved me . . . I suppose they would have tortured me if I’d remembered. But they - they didn’t lie to me. I suppose that would have jeopardized their plans. They told me I was  _ Shems Bont, Achent double-oh-sefen.”  _ Bond imitates Major Boris’s accent sarcastically. “And they - they showed me pictures of the men I’d killed. Told me all about them.” His voice is very flat and neutral as he adds, “I still don’t remember why those men needed to die.”

Kerim’s warm dark eyes are on him. “And now?” he questions. “Do you still plan to shoot M?”

Bond laughs. “If I say no, will you believe me?” he asks. “You can’t. You have to treat me with the utmost suspicion. It’s only protocol, of course.”

Kerim lets out a long breath. “Just because I am an agent does not mean I cannot be a friend to you also, James. Talk to me. What do you plan to do?”

“I don’t want to shoot M,” Bond says, readily enough. And then, after a moment, “I don’t know what the hell I want, Kerim. I feel all jumbled up inside.” He drained his glass of whiskey and poured himself another. “They call it ‘war neurosis’ these days. Or ‘shell-shock’ . . . or some other charming little euphemism for being a head case.”

“You’ve been gone a year, James,” Kerim says. “Where were you all that time? Russia?”

“Japan, for most of it,” Bond says. “And then China, then Russia . . . and then Turkey. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in England.” In his head, Vera Lynn sang,  _ There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover . . .  _

“What happened to you, James?” Kerim asks, quietly. 

Bond shakes his head. “I met a girl,” he said, simply. “And then she died. And after that, nothing was the same again. They sent me to Japan to ‘recover’ . . .” He laughs. “‘Recover.’ They sent me there to get the job done. That’s all it ever was. But they may have told themselves something different. It was supposed to be a routine mission.” He shakes his head again. “And then it all went south. I woke up afterwards, and I couldn’t remember who I was . . . and there was this girl. Not the same girl - a different one.”

Kerim’s lips curve up in one of his big lusty smiles. “There’s always a girl, isn’t there, James?”

“Yes,” Bond says, but he can’t muster his usual smirk. When he thinks of Kissy Suzuki, his heart skips a beat, and he’s not at all sure it’s love. “I thought at first she loved me.” He laughs to himself, suddenly bitter and sharp. “Like a silly lovesick bitch falling head-over-heels for the first drifter she meets . . . I didn’t think twice.”

“She . . . cheated on you?” Kerim guesses.

“No. No. Not as far as I know, at least." Bond shrugs, convulsively. "She lied to me. She told me we were lovers, that my name was Sato, that I was Japanese… And I believed her. Because I didn't know any different, and I thought she loved me." He laughs. "I was a fool. Psycho bitch. But there was something under the surface, something prodding me like a grain of sand under an oyster's shell. I saw the word 'Russia'... I didn't know what it was. "Anger enters his voice now. "And she had no intention of telling me. She let me waltz off into the jaws of the bear without so much as a 'godspeed'. The goddamn KGB treated me better than she did." His free hand curls into a fist. 

Kerim reaches out and put a hand over Bond's. "Women are fickle, my friend." 

"No," Bond says, quietly. "I know fickle.  _ I’m  _ fickle. This was… Something else." 

"Did they hurt you?" Kerim asks. "The KGB?" 

Bond shakes his head. "One of their thugs punched me in the gut when they were taking me in, but otherwise they didn't touch me." He took a drink from his glass. "You're wondering if I'm compromised." 

"Yes." 

"I don't know. I don't feel compromised. It's only that for the first time in years, I hate someone or something else more than SMERSH.” He takes a swig of whiskey. “He’s dead now. Blofeld. But I still feel . . .” He shook his head. “Like it’s not over yet.”

Kerim sips his whiskey. “I can’t promise you that M will take you back. I’ve sent my report already. But if he won’t - ” He shrugs. “You will always have a friend in Turkey, James.”

Those words trickle down James’ throat and settle there, warm like whiskey. 


End file.
